1 40 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



are no fences now, they say, in the village in 

 which the button-roses grew but if they were 

 there, and I were there, and my ga-den had in 

 it only one flower, I would offer it to any little 

 child whose heart hunger for beautiful things 

 led it to imperil its life on my picket-fence in 

 rose time. 



At the end of the garden which I long for, a 

 gate in the wall leads out into a lane along 

 which, as evening draws on, slow lingering 

 figures of young men and maidens pass. Older 

 figures pass also, enjoying the twilight in the 

 perfect confidence of long-married love. Over 

 the tangled hedgerows lush growths of the 

 evergreen honeysuckle, twin-flowered, send out 

 clouds of perfume to mingle with the potent 

 sweetness that falls from the blooming wild 

 grapes which lace the wayside trees together 

 with a tapestry of wonderful grace and beauty. 

 In all the range of precious odours which bless 

 the world, beginning with the violet and the 

 crab-apple, there is none that compare, with 

 their combined essences, and if, in the alembic 

 in which they are transfused, there be also the 

 dear drenched freshness of sweetbriar leaves, 

 they are mostly of the throbbing June dusk, lit 



